


New message

by LaurelSilver



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Botched rescue, Kidnapping, M/M, Student AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Characters:<br/>Arthur 'England' Kirkland<br/>Alistair Gregor 'Scotland' Kirkland (Scottie/Oldest Shite)<br/>Lukas 'Norway' Bondevik (Norweigan with a Danish Puppy)<br/>Soren 'Denmark' Kohler<br/>Francis 'France' Bonnefoi</p>
<p>Warning for some mentions of NSFW stuff</p>
    </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zho500](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Zho500).



> Characters:  
> Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
> Alistair Gregor 'Scotland' Kirkland (Scottie/Oldest Shite)  
> Lukas 'Norway' Bondevik (Norweigan with a Danish Puppy)  
> Soren 'Denmark' Kohler  
> Francis 'France' Bonnefoi
> 
> Warning for some mentions of NSFW stuff

Arthur drags himself out of bed, yawning and stretching. He stands, clapping loudly.

Nothing happens.

Arthur claps again. Again, nothing happens.

“Alistair?” Arthur calls. No answer.

Alistair had been out drinking last night. As is pretty typical for students. But Arthur has an essay to hand in in two days, and he hasn’t even finished reading the texts. Star students right there.

Arthur pads out his room and lets himself into Alistair’s. Alistair’s room seems messy to Arthur, if only because Alistair has a minor hoarding problem. 

Arthur leaps onto Alistair’s bed, yelling incoherently. The bed is completely empty, duvet flung back and left unmade. Who has time to make a bed every day? Not Alistair Gregor Kirkland.

In the next room, Arthur’s phone rings. The Shrek soundtrack. Call from Alistair.

Arthur dives from Alistair’s bed, almost tripping on the carpet as he practically runs to his room. He grabs his phone, pulls it off the charger and answers. “Hello?”

A chuckle. 

“Alistair? What the hell?”

Alistair doesn’t respond, just breathes down the phone.

“If this is a prank, I will pour all of your orange shit down the sink!”

No response.

“Where the fuck are you? I’m coming to pick you up, you bloody pisshead.”

Arthur glares at the phone as the line goes dead, the tone ringing ominously. A text from Lukas, or ‘Norwegian with a Danish Puppy’ as Arthur has him saved, a guy Arthur knows from the Magic Society.

“Just saw your Scottie,” Lukas’ text reads, “Looked like he was fighting some guy. Didn’t get involved, had to take Søren home, but it doesn’t look like Scottie was winning.”

Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes. It was only a matter of time before someone smacked Alistair. Arthur just hopes it smacked some sense into his stupid older sibling. He throws his phone down, heading to get dressed. His phone buzzes several times.

Arthur takes his time getting dressed and making himself a cup of tea, before wandering back to his room to check his phone. If Alistair feels like being a dick, he can wait wherever he’s passed out for a while longer.

‘12 new picture messages from Oldest Shite’

Arthur frowns, unlocking his phone. He opens the first message, almost dropping his phone in shock.

Alistair, in the picture, is shirtless and kneeling on the floor, hands behind his back. Large purple bruises line his chest and shoulders, and the entire base of his neck is red, thumb imprints darkening in his throat. His hair is a mess, flopped down over his face, scarf tied over his eyes. More pictures, close ups of his bound wrists bruised from struggle, the knot of his blindfold, his bruises. A short video of him whimpering as the kidnapper chuckles, then Alistair reeling back as the kidnapper had smacked him sharply across the face. 

Arthur closes the message before the next video finishes loading. He calls Alistair’s phone, bouncing nervously.

The phone is answered. Soft whimpering, and someone gasping.

“Who the fuck is this?!” Alistair demands sharply.

That chuckle again. Nasal and ugly to hear.

“What are you doing to my Ali?!”

The voice doesn’t answer, just sighs and hangs up. Arthur glares at the phone, resisting the urge to throw the phone across the room.

‘New message from Oldest Shite’

Arthur opens the message nervously.

“Clinton Overnight. Room 265.”

Of course. The perfect place to hold someone. A cheap hotel, a hotspot for one night stands and certain *ahem* interests. Holding someone hostage somewhere like that would go completely unnoticed.

Arthur grabs his keys, half running to his car and heading up to the Clinton Overnight. It’s an ugly square building, with a bright yellow sign that is now missing most of the letters, leaving just CLI-T-N O-ER-I--T.

Arthur heads straight in, and up the stairs. The lift is seemingly out of order.

The second floor is quiet, only one couple heading towards Arthur and straight past him with only awkward smiles. Arthur reaches room 265, and takes a deep breath before he throws the door open.

Silence.

Arthur steps in. The room is plain, only big enough for the bed. The duvet shifts, and Alistair sits up. He rubs his face, then locks eyes with Arthur.

He yelps, pulling the duvet up, but it’s too late. The bruises have darkened, circling his throat in a purple choker and dotting over his shoulders and chest.

“Alistair!” Arthur dives on top of him, “Are you alright?!”

“Get off me!” Alistair shoves him away, “Why the fuck are you here?!”

“There was a text.”

“From who?”

“Lukas first. Then whoever kidnapped you.”

Alistair frowns. “Who?”

“From my Wizarding Society.”

“No, I know who Lukas is-”

Alistair is cut off as the duvet shifts. A man, blond and rather slight, sits up. His hair is a mess, and a beard just longer than stubble clings to his jaw.

“Who’s this?” Arthur says.

“Oh, fuck,” Alistair sighs.

“I,” the blond says, “Am Francis. An exchange student. You’re ‘Fucker’, I presume.”

“I don’t know!” Arthur splutters.

“Yes,” Alistair says, “He’s saved in my phone as ‘Fucker’.”

“Rude! I’m not surprised, but that’s still rude!”

Francis chuckles, and Arthur has to restrain himself from beating that smirk of the Frenchman’s face. Francis stands, completely naked. “Just thought you would want to know, Fucker.”

“Know what?”

“He  _ really _ doesn’t need to know,” Alistair says.

“Of course  _ you’d _ say that!” Francis snaps.

“Of course I would! I don’t want my brother knowing what I get off on!”

“What?” Francis says.

“ _ What _ !” Arthur shrieks, repulsing away.

“He’s your brother?” 

“Aye,” Alistair says, “Why the fuck were you on my phone?!”

“I wanted to be sure you didn’t have a girlfriend who’d try to cut my dick off!”

“You’ve really been around haven’t you?”

“What?”

Arthur pulls himself up off the floor. “What. The.  _ Fuck _ ?!”

Francis sighs, covering himself awkwardly with his hands. “I have fucked up.”

“Why is Arthur here?!” Alistair asks.

“I messaged him. With pictures and videos of…”

“Right!” Alistair interrupts quickly, “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I thought he was… not your brother…”

“What?”

“Well… ‘Fucker’... I thought it meant ‘Fuckbuddy’...”

Arthur gasps in horror.

“No,” Alistair says, “It really doesn’t.”

“I realise that  _ now _ !” Francis snaps.


End file.
